In Star Trek - The Next generation a Klingon refers to humans as 'ugly bags of mostly water'. Now anyone who describes Max as ugly will be on the harsh end of a Klingon pain stick but the bag of mostly water bit. That bit I get.
I didn't really understand it until I accidentally shook him. Now I'm not talking about a violent shake, I was just going a little fast in the feeding chair and it was like a slow shake. I heard a gloop, a very distinct gloop. The same type of gloop that you would get if you tilted a half-full bottle backwards and forwards on its side; gloop, gloop.
This was added to the other Sci-Fi reference which is equally alien. In fact it is exactly Alien. A newly born Alien in the Sigourney Weaver series pours water from its mouth almost constantly. This is often the harbinger of the vicious large critters and it puts me in mind of Max's constant stream of drool.
When these two fantastical references are put together with his constant peeing (my shorts are the most recent casualty) and his splish splasing aroung in the local pool, the real meets the fantasy and I am sure that my son is a big slooshy gloopy bag of mostly water. That does not in any way take from his wonderfulness and beauty!
What it does do is make fast movers out of his mother and father. We run for the nappy, we run for the muslin to soak up the drool, we run for the muslin to soak up the vomit and we run to replace everything that he pees over. Water is key and without it we would all be prunes. I have tried to imagine us all as prunes and its not pretty.
Along with this dependence on water comes the sounds. Not just the gloop, the cornucopia of other liquid noises. For the want of a Taxonomy I will start at the head.
When he feeds he makes a very vampiric sucking noise, accompanied by a sort of liquid snort that sounds like a sucked straw at the end of a Macdonald's soft drink. His throat then makes the funniest sound when there is stuff going in or coming out. It's like a little gargle. It's like a little gargle except that that it goes on for quite some time.
Further down into his chest there are the swallowing noises that are a bit like a central heating system with loads of air in it. There is a rattle here and a drip drip there and then the whole system explodes in a fit of hic-coughs.
Even further down are the farts. They are very funny indeed and the stuff of many a low budget English sit-com. They are even funnier when caused by a sneeze or a cough. They have a distinctly watery side to them but I cannot describe them any further as readers are fed up of me talking about Max's rear end!
The only part of Max that has nothing to do with water are his legs. They are solid as a rock. He can't stand on them yet but he can bear his own weight and he kicks like a mule. He has also taken to smacking them down, sometimes to his own surprise.
On the news front, he has some new noises, 'nga nga' and the arrival of the 'g' is good as soon behind it will follow the 'd' and then it's a short hop to da-da! He also grasped a rattle. He shook it, it made a noise and he reacted and then he smacked himself in the head with it. He's a very advanced bag of mostly water.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Routine!
Max has a routine, this has taken some great work on the part of his wonderful Mum to organise. Meanwhile I have been busy with the odd bit of teaching here and there. I play a part in the routine but its genesis and keystone is the morning.
At about 7am the little fellow wakes. He doesn't enjoy this. He wakes up hungry. He wakes up angry. Do we sort out his hunger, do we heck. We change his nappy first. This is my job. I have previously blogged about nappies. They are boring boring boring now (except for when they are not - about once every two or three days). So his boring nappy changed he goes back for his first feed of the day. This is Ciara's job, she does it really well.
Having prepared everything for my day I return at about 7:30 just in time to burp him and say good bye. This is very hard.
He then plays for a bit (maybe has a mid-morning snack) and goes back to sleep. An hour and a bit later he is ready for food and action and there is plenty of action. He gets dressed up into his day gear. On one day he is swimming, another at baby yoga. Suffice it to say that his future development is safeguarded by a schedule of activities that stimulates body and mind. After these activities and another snack it is lunch time.
He then has some more play and mat time (that's play on his mat with the bee and the mirror). He does have an afternoon nap but its time is a bit variable. In fact the middle of the day is a big variable. This suits me fine. I am at work, no worries. For Ciara it can be a bit of a roller coaster. Most days work out fine but some days when I get home, young Max is thrust into my hands and - tag I'm it!
So as the afternoon drifts away like one of Max's particularly virulent farts, the routine begins to reestablish itself. At around 7pm, it's bath time! This is a wonderland of emotion and wriggling and splashing and suds. Sometimes both of us are involved and sometimes just one of us. A clean Max is brought to the bed, redressed into night gear and read a lovely story. There will be many posts about childrens' literature in the future but for now lets assume that the story is lovely and that Max is very relaxed and ready for a feed and bed. He then gets his bottle, up to 220mls and theoretically falls into a stupor until 7am again. Meanwhile we fit in the evening dinner and small amount of relaxation time around this. Like water pouring into a bucket of stones. In fact that's how we work with the routine, we dance around it like particles flung around in Brownian motion.
It's an imperfect system because it is so variable in the middle. You can't set your watch by him but you can at least have a good crack at figuring out day from night. He is much happier with the routine. When we don't follow it, he is upset. He is much more difficult to settle and our lives are full of misery. So we follow the routine, and woe betide anyone who gets in the way. They have to get him asleep while his parents rest - be warned!
At about 7am the little fellow wakes. He doesn't enjoy this. He wakes up hungry. He wakes up angry. Do we sort out his hunger, do we heck. We change his nappy first. This is my job. I have previously blogged about nappies. They are boring boring boring now (except for when they are not - about once every two or three days). So his boring nappy changed he goes back for his first feed of the day. This is Ciara's job, she does it really well.
Having prepared everything for my day I return at about 7:30 just in time to burp him and say good bye. This is very hard.
He then plays for a bit (maybe has a mid-morning snack) and goes back to sleep. An hour and a bit later he is ready for food and action and there is plenty of action. He gets dressed up into his day gear. On one day he is swimming, another at baby yoga. Suffice it to say that his future development is safeguarded by a schedule of activities that stimulates body and mind. After these activities and another snack it is lunch time.
He then has some more play and mat time (that's play on his mat with the bee and the mirror). He does have an afternoon nap but its time is a bit variable. In fact the middle of the day is a big variable. This suits me fine. I am at work, no worries. For Ciara it can be a bit of a roller coaster. Most days work out fine but some days when I get home, young Max is thrust into my hands and - tag I'm it!
So as the afternoon drifts away like one of Max's particularly virulent farts, the routine begins to reestablish itself. At around 7pm, it's bath time! This is a wonderland of emotion and wriggling and splashing and suds. Sometimes both of us are involved and sometimes just one of us. A clean Max is brought to the bed, redressed into night gear and read a lovely story. There will be many posts about childrens' literature in the future but for now lets assume that the story is lovely and that Max is very relaxed and ready for a feed and bed. He then gets his bottle, up to 220mls and theoretically falls into a stupor until 7am again. Meanwhile we fit in the evening dinner and small amount of relaxation time around this. Like water pouring into a bucket of stones. In fact that's how we work with the routine, we dance around it like particles flung around in Brownian motion.
It's an imperfect system because it is so variable in the middle. You can't set your watch by him but you can at least have a good crack at figuring out day from night. He is much happier with the routine. When we don't follow it, he is upset. He is much more difficult to settle and our lives are full of misery. So we follow the routine, and woe betide anyone who gets in the way. They have to get him asleep while his parents rest - be warned!
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Rubbing his hands with glee
My last post was very indulgent and soppy, some readers have admitted to tears and other to gastric distress. So this time I have decided to report only the facts without comment. This way I am assured that the tone will be appropriate to all readers no matter what their disposition and digestive health.
Max will be 11 weeks old tomorrow. His age wears heavily upon him. He stares inscrutably at almost everything and wrings his hands constantly. The black and white mobile provides him with hours of quiet reflection. The play mat is far too much for his fragile state and drives him into convulsions of sensory overload.
The small bee (that he has been fixated on) has been replaced in his affections by his own reflection. This I see, not as a narcissistic development but one of severe self reflection. Such self examination is a clear sign of a deep intelligence, he must be very advanced.
The only thing I can't get past is the drool. He drools constantly. This I am told is a sure sign of teething, but it is also a sure sign of rabies. I am pretty sure that Max does not have rabies, for he shows no signs of madness or writhing above that level that is normal for a child his age. But the frothing and drooling is a bit discomforting.
He has graduated to the larger bottle. Combine this with the cot, the clothes and the inscrutability and you have the measure of a man. To see all of this in an eleven week old is surely presumptuous and pompous, but I beg your indulgence.
The larger bottle is big enough for an adult drink (that is not one that contains material unsuitable - just large), it is only just short of the 500mls that approximates a pint. No one should ever drink a pint in the one go. That is far too much liquid for any one throat. In fact Max found it so this evening and the slower teat had to be brought to bear. He took this without complaint on the first go and so broke all of the rules. I was waiting for the merry dance but he just wolfed it all down, about 180mls.
On a more serious note, the bumper is gone from the cot side. This is a bit of a tale but its worth telling. The books (the infamous books) and the websites (fonts of all knowledge) say that bumpers around cots are not a good idea as they have been linked to incidence of SIDS. That is fine in theory but when your son is whacking his head around in his sleep you think that a bumper is necessary so you tie it up according to the manufacturers instructions. Then a good friend passes on a bit of research and info and it is very clear that an odd knock of the head is the least of our worries. Two quick links followed and the bumper is gone. All of this, all of this, and the little fellow has not put his head near the edge and shows no signs of doing so. Thank you friend.
So what else to report on this Saturday evening. He still retains his youth, beauty and loveliness, he still steals the hearts of all who sees him, but now there is a wryness. There is a little curl to the edge of his lips. There is a wring to the holding of his hands. There is a glint in his eye. There would be a jaunt in his step, if he could walk. There is at the very least a swagger in his kicks. Max is growing up and developing a personality. Look out world.
Max will be 11 weeks old tomorrow. His age wears heavily upon him. He stares inscrutably at almost everything and wrings his hands constantly. The black and white mobile provides him with hours of quiet reflection. The play mat is far too much for his fragile state and drives him into convulsions of sensory overload.
The small bee (that he has been fixated on) has been replaced in his affections by his own reflection. This I see, not as a narcissistic development but one of severe self reflection. Such self examination is a clear sign of a deep intelligence, he must be very advanced.
The only thing I can't get past is the drool. He drools constantly. This I am told is a sure sign of teething, but it is also a sure sign of rabies. I am pretty sure that Max does not have rabies, for he shows no signs of madness or writhing above that level that is normal for a child his age. But the frothing and drooling is a bit discomforting.
He has graduated to the larger bottle. Combine this with the cot, the clothes and the inscrutability and you have the measure of a man. To see all of this in an eleven week old is surely presumptuous and pompous, but I beg your indulgence.
The larger bottle is big enough for an adult drink (that is not one that contains material unsuitable - just large), it is only just short of the 500mls that approximates a pint. No one should ever drink a pint in the one go. That is far too much liquid for any one throat. In fact Max found it so this evening and the slower teat had to be brought to bear. He took this without complaint on the first go and so broke all of the rules. I was waiting for the merry dance but he just wolfed it all down, about 180mls.
On a more serious note, the bumper is gone from the cot side. This is a bit of a tale but its worth telling. The books (the infamous books) and the websites (fonts of all knowledge) say that bumpers around cots are not a good idea as they have been linked to incidence of SIDS. That is fine in theory but when your son is whacking his head around in his sleep you think that a bumper is necessary so you tie it up according to the manufacturers instructions. Then a good friend passes on a bit of research and info and it is very clear that an odd knock of the head is the least of our worries. Two quick links followed and the bumper is gone. All of this, all of this, and the little fellow has not put his head near the edge and shows no signs of doing so. Thank you friend.
So what else to report on this Saturday evening. He still retains his youth, beauty and loveliness, he still steals the hearts of all who sees him, but now there is a wryness. There is a little curl to the edge of his lips. There is a wring to the holding of his hands. There is a glint in his eye. There would be a jaunt in his step, if he could walk. There is at the very least a swagger in his kicks. Max is growing up and developing a personality. Look out world.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Moving on...
So where did I leave off, there was swimming and the battle over the milk. Well the swimming is going really well and so is the bottle feeding. But it's really funny. There is a little dance, a baby/adult thing, a waltz, a cha cha cha. I give him the bottle and he pretends to suck. He pretends to like it. He pretends to wolf it down. Then I look at the bottle and there is none missing.
I take it out and give him a break. He has shown me. He is the boss, I get it. I try a second time and he wails. Loud and sobbing, telling the world that I am a bad parent and that I am trying to poison him with snake venom flavored milk. So I stop, settle him and try again. At this point he admits that there is purpose to the bottle feeding after all and drinks the milk as if it was the last 120mls on earth!
The most important addition to this story is the 'Mother can't be in the room' thing. Some send mother away for a night out or a long walk. Well certainly the time it worked perfectly the first time, Ciara was in another room, but today she was in the room and he stared at her for most of the feed. He has graduated to an easy feeder.
There was a bit of screaming along the way and a good load of wriggling and one really unpleasant afternoon, but we are there. There is a very good maxim that says never row over food, that can lead to all sorts of difficulty later on. I console myself with the hope that he'll never remember that row, he's too young. Can we have scarred him for life already? The baby books tell us we have so I'm already saving for the therapy sessions. Or maybe it would be easier to retrain as a psychologist.
The other graduation is to the big bed. Its a cool apartment friendly transformer cot that has two levels, interchangeable sides and concertinas down into a tiny little thing that fits in a cupboard. It has a massive sleeping area which hopefully means Max won't smack his head against the sides. He has just outgrown the Moses Basket. The wicker sides were about to be broken down by his gorilla fists and massive gorilla head. He's not out-sized you understand just bigger than the Moses Basket. If he were relying on that basket to float him down the river he would now be a child of the Mer-People.
We had a very exciting day today, home at 2:45 and back out the door to the new art Gallery in town by three. Max had already been out to the Botanic Gardens but he rallied and took the opportunity of the car journey to nap. It must have been really weird, given that when he awoke he was in a room full of barbed wire. He then went into a room with chalk drawings of ghost estates and stonehenge. He made a decision late in the trip that he prefers the classics, we must go to the National Gallery soon and confirm that decision. We then went to Tesco and sorted out the shopping for the week. The magic ended in the car on the way home when hunger finally struck properly and the wailing began.
The magic of the organisation slipped too as the bottle leaked all over the bottom of the changing bag. There is a reason a dampener is called a dampener. Some days are just packed and wonderful and perfect. Dampener or no dampener, it was Ace!
I take it out and give him a break. He has shown me. He is the boss, I get it. I try a second time and he wails. Loud and sobbing, telling the world that I am a bad parent and that I am trying to poison him with snake venom flavored milk. So I stop, settle him and try again. At this point he admits that there is purpose to the bottle feeding after all and drinks the milk as if it was the last 120mls on earth!
The most important addition to this story is the 'Mother can't be in the room' thing. Some send mother away for a night out or a long walk. Well certainly the time it worked perfectly the first time, Ciara was in another room, but today she was in the room and he stared at her for most of the feed. He has graduated to an easy feeder.
There was a bit of screaming along the way and a good load of wriggling and one really unpleasant afternoon, but we are there. There is a very good maxim that says never row over food, that can lead to all sorts of difficulty later on. I console myself with the hope that he'll never remember that row, he's too young. Can we have scarred him for life already? The baby books tell us we have so I'm already saving for the therapy sessions. Or maybe it would be easier to retrain as a psychologist.
The other graduation is to the big bed. Its a cool apartment friendly transformer cot that has two levels, interchangeable sides and concertinas down into a tiny little thing that fits in a cupboard. It has a massive sleeping area which hopefully means Max won't smack his head against the sides. He has just outgrown the Moses Basket. The wicker sides were about to be broken down by his gorilla fists and massive gorilla head. He's not out-sized you understand just bigger than the Moses Basket. If he were relying on that basket to float him down the river he would now be a child of the Mer-People.
We had a very exciting day today, home at 2:45 and back out the door to the new art Gallery in town by three. Max had already been out to the Botanic Gardens but he rallied and took the opportunity of the car journey to nap. It must have been really weird, given that when he awoke he was in a room full of barbed wire. He then went into a room with chalk drawings of ghost estates and stonehenge. He made a decision late in the trip that he prefers the classics, we must go to the National Gallery soon and confirm that decision. We then went to Tesco and sorted out the shopping for the week. The magic ended in the car on the way home when hunger finally struck properly and the wailing began.
The magic of the organisation slipped too as the bottle leaked all over the bottom of the changing bag. There is a reason a dampener is called a dampener. Some days are just packed and wonderful and perfect. Dampener or no dampener, it was Ace!
Friday, September 9, 2011
Swimming and Milk
There are many things to report. Young Max is coping very well with the work-a-day routine. He seems to have a little routine of his own that sometimes coincides with our plan and sometimes doesn't. He is patient with us, and for that we are thankful.
One of the key developmental goals for someone his age is the 'regarding of a raisin". I suppose it is small enough to be relatively difficult to see and yet dark enough to provide the contrast that his young eyes require.
I have muesli in the morning and it has raisins in it. So this morning I took a raisin and held it in front of him. Well he regarded it with a style and grace that supersedes anything in the developmental books. We now know that when Max regards a raisin, that raisin stays regarded.
He also got his first pair of jeans today. They look cool, that is all.
He is developing a very curious attachment to a toy bee that hangs from his play-mat. He kicks the overhanging bars and the bee moves and he giggles. We are not sure whether he is controlling his feet with any level of precision. It seems as if he hits the bars one in five times but when he does the giggles are worth hearing. Once fixated his eyes will not leave the bee. I am reminded of the urban myth that penguins fixated on an over flying aircraft will tip over while watching it. Max will follow that bee wheresoever it goes. I am concerned that when he encounters a real bee for the first time he will develop repetitive strain injury in his neck from futile attempts to track it as it goes about its pollination activities. To ensure that this does not happen, the bee will be retired for a while and replaced with an elephant - they are slower moving.
He also had his first swimming lesson - who knew that 'twinkle, twinkle little star' could be used as a tool for learning how to swim on your back. He has a very cute swim nappy that is heavily elasticated to prevent leakage. Leakage of any kind in a pool is bad news but leakage of the nappy kind will close the pool for 24 hours. It's funy how some people can't handle a bit of E-Coli. He loves the water, he loves his nightly bath, he loves the rabbit towel and he loves the story afterwards. There is no end to the things he finds delight in. Sure why wouldn't he!
There is only one thing that he doesn't like. That's the bottle! He has been known to take all 120mls in one long gulp but he doesn't like it! He prefers breast milk but he can't have that forever. He is due in the creche in January and at the rate that time is passing that will be in a week or so. He needs to begin a very slow weening off breast milk and onto the formula. At the moment no dice. There is a bit of crying, there is a bit of screaming and we give in. The process begins again the next day. We have consulted the books and websites and other parents and the advice is as conflicting as the number of sources but the on coherent comment is perseverance. He tries all sorts of tricks to avoid it. He falls asleep, he turns his head and he flicks the teat out with his tongue (he's very advanced). I'm in favour of some form of drip system but Ciara says that that is cruel. All I know is that I don't like the drink either.
I have never tasted breast milk. But that formula stuff is rank. It smells like grass and tastes like a cross between iron bars and petrol. No wonder he doesn't like it. I am not surprised that it has never caught on as an evening tipple. Max - though it causes me great frustration, hair pulling and fear for the future. I am with you all the way, the milk is muck!
One of the key developmental goals for someone his age is the 'regarding of a raisin". I suppose it is small enough to be relatively difficult to see and yet dark enough to provide the contrast that his young eyes require.
I have muesli in the morning and it has raisins in it. So this morning I took a raisin and held it in front of him. Well he regarded it with a style and grace that supersedes anything in the developmental books. We now know that when Max regards a raisin, that raisin stays regarded.
He also got his first pair of jeans today. They look cool, that is all.
He is developing a very curious attachment to a toy bee that hangs from his play-mat. He kicks the overhanging bars and the bee moves and he giggles. We are not sure whether he is controlling his feet with any level of precision. It seems as if he hits the bars one in five times but when he does the giggles are worth hearing. Once fixated his eyes will not leave the bee. I am reminded of the urban myth that penguins fixated on an over flying aircraft will tip over while watching it. Max will follow that bee wheresoever it goes. I am concerned that when he encounters a real bee for the first time he will develop repetitive strain injury in his neck from futile attempts to track it as it goes about its pollination activities. To ensure that this does not happen, the bee will be retired for a while and replaced with an elephant - they are slower moving.
He also had his first swimming lesson - who knew that 'twinkle, twinkle little star' could be used as a tool for learning how to swim on your back. He has a very cute swim nappy that is heavily elasticated to prevent leakage. Leakage of any kind in a pool is bad news but leakage of the nappy kind will close the pool for 24 hours. It's funy how some people can't handle a bit of E-Coli. He loves the water, he loves his nightly bath, he loves the rabbit towel and he loves the story afterwards. There is no end to the things he finds delight in. Sure why wouldn't he!
There is only one thing that he doesn't like. That's the bottle! He has been known to take all 120mls in one long gulp but he doesn't like it! He prefers breast milk but he can't have that forever. He is due in the creche in January and at the rate that time is passing that will be in a week or so. He needs to begin a very slow weening off breast milk and onto the formula. At the moment no dice. There is a bit of crying, there is a bit of screaming and we give in. The process begins again the next day. We have consulted the books and websites and other parents and the advice is as conflicting as the number of sources but the on coherent comment is perseverance. He tries all sorts of tricks to avoid it. He falls asleep, he turns his head and he flicks the teat out with his tongue (he's very advanced). I'm in favour of some form of drip system but Ciara says that that is cruel. All I know is that I don't like the drink either.
I have never tasted breast milk. But that formula stuff is rank. It smells like grass and tastes like a cross between iron bars and petrol. No wonder he doesn't like it. I am not surprised that it has never caught on as an evening tipple. Max - though it causes me great frustration, hair pulling and fear for the future. I am with you all the way, the milk is muck!
Sunday, September 4, 2011
ahwooo
Nine weeks, can you believe it, nine weeks. Max is a full nine weeks old and he is growing up, developing, changing at a massive rate. He is even getting a routine. His Dad is back to work and his Mum is looking after him wonderfully. It's amusing how my priorities have shifted.
It's not that I have to be home at a certain time. If I need to stay late at work I can, the thing is I don't want to. I want to be able to do my teaching, look after the students and then get the hell home to see my wife and child. It's like one of those scenes from a very bad Disney film. The hero is rushing past obstacles on his way and the camera cuts from each vignette back to a still or almost still of the forlorn family minus the hero, standing at the doorstep. Casting myself as the hero speaks volumes, but its my psychosis and I'm sticking to it.
In reality of course there is no forlornness, I get home and it is domestic bliss, I hear about the day that they have had and do my best to fit in. Ten minutes later it's as if I was never at work and there is a little stream of baby vomit running down my back, I've changed a nappy and it's time for dinner - welcome home daddy!
And that's the funny bit. I want this, I want it all the time. I wonder could I teach from home. I wonder could I set up some sort of a web link and then I stop wondering and come back to earth. This is the way it must be. Stop trying to change the things that are immutable and focus on maximising time at home while still also being able to pay for it.
The title of this post is 'ahwooo' - that is Max's default noise for I am contented and talking to you. We talk back and if there is more to say another ahwooo comes our way. He communicates other things like hunger and discomfort by crying but lets put them aside for a minute. The ahwooo phenomenon reminds me of a device controlled by a single button. Press the button once, something happens. Press it twice, something else happens. Hold the button down, something entirely different, and so on. Max is a bit like that in reverse. If we knew what the Max Code of ahwooos was, we would have communication with our nine week old baby sorted! Forget your baby sign language, forget your flash cards. Ahwooo is where it's at.
It is such a delightful noise. It's soft, it's accompanied by a smile. It has a tonal interrogative at times, a guttural imperative at others. It's a delight to try and decipher this undecipherable communication. In the not too distant future he will find a consonant and aghooo will arrive, but I want to hold on to ahwooo. It's like it has everything good, wise and cuddly about it, like the Owl in the hundred acre wood.
Just one more thing, lest you though I was finished with scatology, I'm not. The poo still fascinates. It's just gone to ground. One good nappy only every two or three days now. What a perfect feeding system that basically uses up every morsel that isn't chucked back over dad's shirts. Every few days a minimum of waste is ejected and it now has the consistency of paint, Dulux probably have a lovely name for it, Autumnal Leaf or Disturbed Earth. Well its disturbed all right. I wonder what its Pantone Colour reference number is? Max is also very respectful of his nappy changer now. No more wild peeing. He can last a full 10 minutes with his nappy off, to prevent rash. It is a little like Russian Roulette as you never know when the metaphorical chamber is full but as long as there are no expensive furnishings around, you're all right.
Nine weeks, nine weeks, sure he's very advanced for nine weeks :-)
It's not that I have to be home at a certain time. If I need to stay late at work I can, the thing is I don't want to. I want to be able to do my teaching, look after the students and then get the hell home to see my wife and child. It's like one of those scenes from a very bad Disney film. The hero is rushing past obstacles on his way and the camera cuts from each vignette back to a still or almost still of the forlorn family minus the hero, standing at the doorstep. Casting myself as the hero speaks volumes, but its my psychosis and I'm sticking to it.
In reality of course there is no forlornness, I get home and it is domestic bliss, I hear about the day that they have had and do my best to fit in. Ten minutes later it's as if I was never at work and there is a little stream of baby vomit running down my back, I've changed a nappy and it's time for dinner - welcome home daddy!
And that's the funny bit. I want this, I want it all the time. I wonder could I teach from home. I wonder could I set up some sort of a web link and then I stop wondering and come back to earth. This is the way it must be. Stop trying to change the things that are immutable and focus on maximising time at home while still also being able to pay for it.
The title of this post is 'ahwooo' - that is Max's default noise for I am contented and talking to you. We talk back and if there is more to say another ahwooo comes our way. He communicates other things like hunger and discomfort by crying but lets put them aside for a minute. The ahwooo phenomenon reminds me of a device controlled by a single button. Press the button once, something happens. Press it twice, something else happens. Hold the button down, something entirely different, and so on. Max is a bit like that in reverse. If we knew what the Max Code of ahwooos was, we would have communication with our nine week old baby sorted! Forget your baby sign language, forget your flash cards. Ahwooo is where it's at.
It is such a delightful noise. It's soft, it's accompanied by a smile. It has a tonal interrogative at times, a guttural imperative at others. It's a delight to try and decipher this undecipherable communication. In the not too distant future he will find a consonant and aghooo will arrive, but I want to hold on to ahwooo. It's like it has everything good, wise and cuddly about it, like the Owl in the hundred acre wood.
Just one more thing, lest you though I was finished with scatology, I'm not. The poo still fascinates. It's just gone to ground. One good nappy only every two or three days now. What a perfect feeding system that basically uses up every morsel that isn't chucked back over dad's shirts. Every few days a minimum of waste is ejected and it now has the consistency of paint, Dulux probably have a lovely name for it, Autumnal Leaf or Disturbed Earth. Well its disturbed all right. I wonder what its Pantone Colour reference number is? Max is also very respectful of his nappy changer now. No more wild peeing. He can last a full 10 minutes with his nappy off, to prevent rash. It is a little like Russian Roulette as you never know when the metaphorical chamber is full but as long as there are no expensive furnishings around, you're all right.
Nine weeks, nine weeks, sure he's very advanced for nine weeks :-)
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